Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 418 - 272: Autumn Harvest (Part 2)
Chapter 418: Chapter 272: Autumn Harvest (Part 2)
Everyone immediately stood up, almost in unison shouting, “Thank you for your hard work, Lord!”
Louis looked at them, his gaze swept across familiar faces without any airs, just nodding lightly.
“You’ve all worked hard too,” he said, his tone steady, even carrying a hint of casual warmth.
Having said that, he walked to the main seat, pulled out the chair and sat down, rested his elbow on the tabletop, and his tone shifted, crisp and decisive: “Let’s begin. In spring, we fought against the Permafrost. Now we must win this harvest battle.”
As his voice fell, the hall was left with only the sound of pens scratching on paper.
Louis leaned over the map, drawing several lines, his tone steady like nails being driven into wood: “From today onwards, the three-shift rotation continues, with Early Cultivation Village, Noon Cultivation Village, and Night Cultivation Village participating in the relay without a single day’s interruption.
Every evening, announce the progress list. Any village that falls behind must adjust personnel themselves to fill the gap, no excuses allowed. Open-field wheat fields must be harvested first, making sure to finish before the first frost. Keep the greenhouse crops ready for the next planting window.”
He looked up and scanned a few Grain Guardians Knight Captains and said, “Starting tonight, checkpoints and patrols are required on main roads, around granaries, and grain transport routes. Knights will patrol in shifts, prepare torch signals on the high platform at the valley mouth, and signal by fire if there’s any issue.”
He then turned to Green, his voice lower but more weighty: “The harvest will be entirely included in the Red Tide winter storage system, we must endure this winter. All grain flow must be made public.”
Louis continued, “Post notice lists in each village, code the grain bags, so that ’every bag of grain can be traced back to its destination’.”
His tone was calm, yet like a knife cutting into the root of the problem, without any ambiguity.
“The granary reinforcement project will continue as usual, the expansion work starts today, and the drying firehouse must begin firing ahead of schedule to prevent rain and snow from destroying the wheat.”
Emily sat at the side of the main seat, quietly watching Louis.
This was not the first time she’d seen him host an administrative meeting.
But every time she watched, she couldn’t help but reassess this man.
He wasn’t wearing battle armor nor a cape, just a simple and neatly kept dark grey long gown, with sleeves tied cleanly.
Yet as soon as he stepped into the council hall, the slightly noisy room quietened down like a bowstring pulled taut.
Without imposing pressure, without extra words, yet his mere presence was enough to make everyone serious.
He stood there, quietly flipping through wheat field drawings, granary catalogs, and workers’ registers.
Emily gazed at his profile, a feeling quietly rose in her heart.
Not admiration, nor gratitude, but a kind of appreciation from the bottom of her heart.
He always manages to grasp the situation at the most critical moments, giving assurance to everyone.
After Louis finished speaking, everyone in the conference room stood up to respond, promising to complete their tasks.
Only then did he nod, stood up, and gazed around them, his voice not loud but warm-hearted: “Go now! Let the song of harvest resonate throughout Mai Lang Valley!”
The bell outside just rang, seemingly in response.
Everyone filed out in order, some immediately deploying personnel, while others hastily rode back to the village community.
……
On the second morning after arriving at Mai Lang Territory, Louis himself personally arranged for the “Scythe Ceremony” to kick off.
In such a long and arduous harvest battle, orders and systems alone are nowhere near enough.
Most people in Mai Lang Territory were once refugees from famine, survivors of dilapidated villages, or people dragged into ruins by old wars.
They need the great Sun to give them a little spiritual boost.
Sunlight poured onto the wheat field in the center of the valley, golden waves rolling, stretching endlessly.
On the edge of the field, hundreds of village representatives had gathered early, forming a circle, their clothes neat, eyes filled with excitement and respect.
Colorful flags were planted in the fields, flapping loudly in the wind, like decorations prepared specifically for this day.
The elderly Agricultural Official held the cold iron scythe in both hands, walking to the center of the field and respectfully raising it in front of Louis.
The blade glistened silver under the sunlight, cold and sharp but without any intentions of harm.
Louis took the scythe, spoke no word, just quietly rolled up his sleeves and walked to the wheat field.
Everyone held their breath, watching as he twisted his wrist, the cold iron scythe swung down decisively, and the first bundle of golden wheat stalks bowed to the ground.
Immediately, thunderous cheers erupted from the entire scene.
“Long live the Lord!”
“Mai Lang will be bountiful!”
The cheering echoed intermittently, like waves surging from the fields to the distant valley.
Louis stood up, slowly scanning the crowd, his voice not loud but clear and powerful: “In spring, we declared war against Permafrost. Today’s harvest is not my victory, but the victory won by your hands! Let this golden tide tell all of Northern Territory! Hunger is no longer fate!”
His voice carried far with the wind, unfurling across the entire fertile land alongside the shadows of clouds.
After the ceremony, the villagers each returned to their villages in high spirits, recounting the scene of Louis cutting wheat enthusiastically.
“Let me tell you, with just a swing of the knife, the wheat fell as if obedient!”
“The Lord used the golden scythe to cut the wheat! Clean and swift, without a single wasted word, standing there like a mountain! No, like a god descended from heaven!”
“A single phrase ’Hunger is no longer fate’, listen to it! Who can say such words?!”
Thus, this scythe ceremony became a legend in the valley within half a day.
One telling ten, ten telling a hundred, a hundred telling a thousand, a thousand telling ten thousand… the storytellers kept adding embellishments until what was an ordinary ceremony turned into a miracle, igniting the whole of Mai Lang Territory.
Everyone thought, the Lord himself went down to the field, can we afford not to work?
Scythes swung one after another, the sound of cutting wheat “swish swish” resounded through the valley like war drums rising and falling.
Carriages flowed nonstop, cutting paths along the field ridges, delivering carts of wheat bundles to temporary granaries.
Women wrapped headscarves and sleeves, bent over to cut wheat in the fields, humming long-lost harvest tunes; children rolled and played among the hay, laughter piercingly bright.
Even the elders stayed busy, at the drying grounds husking, bundling, and turning wheat, feeling secure even if just sitting aside helping to watch the fire or pass water.
On the side of the geothermal greenhouses, the female workers carefully clipped off bunches of greenhouse fruits and vegetables, their sweat shimmering in the sunlight.
Youth carried straw baskets and burlap bags on their shoulders, moved continuously, joy on their faces brighter than sunshine.
Louis rode through the valley, inspecting each wheat field, greenhouse, and drying ground.
For instance, he keenly noticed that the east slope was moving a bit slower, immediately turned his horse, directing nearby village communities to dispatch personnel: “Group two, ten people, go over there immediately to assist, that field must be cleared before sunset!”
Afterwards he arrived at the temporary granary, personally checked several bags of freshly stored green wheat, pinching its moisture with his fingers, then squatted to check the ventilation channels and anti-mouse traps.
By the drying furnace, he removed his gloves, personally testing the furnace temperature, and instructed the craftsmen: “The heat is too damp, keep it burning for a while longer, do not let the green wheat spoil.”
To the Grain Guardians, he simply said: “Tonight add more people on patrol, not a single grain shall be wasted.”
Everywhere he went, he offered suggestions, making his presence felt.
The sun slanted westwards, the entire Mai Lang Territory had become a non-stop roaring harvest machine.
The sound of scythes cutting wheat, wheels grinding dirt, laughter and shouts intertwined into an autumn song.
Louis stood on the ridge, gazing out at the entire valley: wheat fields like waves, people like tides, granaries like forts, children doing somersaults on haystacks, the smell of smoke and wheat mixing with sunlight flying on the wind.
Thus, the golden season of early autumn slowly approached its end in the swing of scythes.
Every inch of the valley’s farmland was carefully harvested, every bag of grain accurately recorded, and every cartload of harvest securely stored.
The previously empty new granary was now completely full, even the ventilation channels had been maneuvered to stack burlap bags.
Green had to adjust the new granary’s position three times, even setting up rows of grain shelters at the valley mouth.
“We’ve… harvested too much.” He muttered somewhat absentmindedly yet smiling like a child.
This season’s Mai Lang not only filled the granaries but also instilled a long-lost sense of security in everyone’s hearts.
